


In Case of Emergency (Break Mycroft)

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Mystrade Story Times [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Greg's the one who's injured but somebody broke Mycroft, Kissing, Lestrade has game even when he's concussed, M/M, Mycroft is helpless in the face of Greg's allure, Mystrade Story Time, POV Mycroft Holmes, Pre-Relationship, minor injury, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26162248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Originally posted to Twitter as part of Mystrade Story Time (follow me @savvyblunders)In pursuit of a suspect, Lestrade receives a blow to the head and Mycroft is left behind to keep watch over him until Emergency Services arrive. he finds Lestrade to be a particularly difficult patient, what with the pet names, the flirting, and the kisses...
Relationships: Mycroft & Greg, Mycroft/Greg
Series: Mystrade Story Times [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1335472
Comments: 46
Kudos: 215





	1. Kissing the Boo-boo

Mycroft Holmes did not panic. He was calm. Cool. Collected. He was The Ice Man.

None of which explained why he was quietly losing his shit as he heard Sherlock and Dr Watson's rapid footsteps pelting after the suspect. The suspect who had jumped DI Lestrade, dealt him a blow, and raced off into the warren of old, disused warehouses. 'Keep him conscious until the ambulance gets here,' Watson had yelled over his shoulder, 'try to keep him talking.' Excellent. Small talk with the man he had a long-standing crush of humiliating strength on. Easy peasy.

"Lestrade," Mycroft said in a firm voice as he watched the handsome older man's eyelids drift slowly downward. "Can you hear me?"

"Course I can," Lestrade muttered, "Ain't deaf, am I?"

"Sorry, I suppose I'm a trifle loud."

"'s alright," Lestrade soothed, fumbling for, and finding, Mycroft's hand. He appeared unaware that he had set off a series of minor explosions in Mycroft's ribcage. "No need to shout, love."

Mycroft's mouth hung open in brief shock before he mouthed 'love' with bewilderment. To his recollection no one had ever termed him 'love' before. Of course, the man had suffered a serious blow to the head. Mycroft found himself patting Lestrade's hand, which was still curled around his. "There, there," he said rather helplessly. He was rubbish at comfort.

"Right here," Lestrade murmured.

"What's that?"

"You said there, and I said I'm here," Lestrade grinned a little, cockeyed and fond. His eyes, slightly unfocused, tracked Mycroft's face. "Sorry if I'm worrying you, love."

There it was again. _Love._ Mycroft squashed his foolish heart firmly underfoot. The man was wandering in his wits. It meant nothing. Although...the way he was petting Mycroft's hand was...misleading. One might almost say, amorous. "The ambulance will be here soon." He adjusted Lestrade's head on his own helplessly crumpled coat, which he had shed to act as a makeshift pillow. "They'll have you feeling better in no time."

"Could use a kiss," Lestrade suggested, smiling at Mycroft as if he were delighted at the sight of him.

Ridiculous! No one was ever delighted at the sight of Mycroft Holmes! "I'm sure your latest paramour will be delighted to bestow upon you as many kisses as you desire," Mycroft said, a trifle acerbically. Well, he could be excused a bit of acid, no?

"Whatsit?"

"Pardon?"

"Whatsit--what you said--my what?"

"Your paramour?"

"Thatsit." Lestrade nodded, then winced. Mycroft laid a hand on his brow and he settled. Mycroft tried not to preen. "Whatsa paramour?"

"Your, ah, latest ladyfriend."

Lestrade snorted, "Haven't got one, have I, smarty?" He closed his eyes.

"Lestrade!"

His eyes jolted open. "Why're you shouting again?"

"You're...falling asleep."

"Have som'thing against naps, do you?"

"Not as such no. It's merely that you could be concussed. You must remain awake." Lestrade patted his hand. It was quite comforting. Although he should really be comforting Lestrade. But the man was excellent at it. Imagine if...well, imagine if he had the man to come home to after a long day dealing with the crooks and liars that peopled Whitehall.

"'m awake, really." Lestrade blinked owlishly to prove it. "Just wanted to close my eyes a tiny bit, sweetheart."

 _Sweetheart!_ Forsooth, first love, and now sweetheart! Mycroft willed his heart to cease its foolish capering. "I'm afraid your health isn't as robust as Dr Watson supposed," he fretted, leaning closer to peer into Lestrade's eyes, to check his pupils in the uncertain light.

"Mm," Lestrade hummed as he leaned up a tiny bit and pressed his lips to Mycroft's. Shock--and not desire!--left him rooted in place. His mouth fell open with still more shock. Lestrade, the scampish scoundrel, took advantage of Mycroft's temporarily wandering wits to French him.

Oh Lord. The man's tongue needed to be registered as a WMD. Mycroft, bewilderingly short of breath, panted against Lestrade's skillful lips.

"That's nice," Lestrade whispered when he pulled away some moments, or hours, later. He had settled a fond hand in Mycroft's hair, as they kissed, and now he scrunched his fingers gently, mussing the normally impeccable strands further. "Been wanting to do that for ages."

"You-you have?"

Lestrade smiled sweetly, "Course I have. Haven't you?"

"Well...yes."

"That's alright then. C'mere, give us another kiss, eh, gorgeous?"

"Your head..."

"Is right here behind my lips. Good place for it. You can keep an eye on things." Lestrade grinned wickedly, "Might want to run your hands over my body, make sure I'm not injured anywhere else."

"What a very good idea," Mycroft, no fool, agreed enthusiastically, and bent his not-inconsiderable skills to the task. Engrossed in his errand of mercy he didn't hear the calvary arrive. The first he knew of it was Sherlock's disgusted shout. "Ugh! Mycroft! Get off of Graham."

"The name's Greg," Lestrade corrected mildly. He smiled into Mycroft's dazed eyes, "You try and remember that too, okay, gorgeous? I like 'Lestrade' but hearing you moan Greg is even better."

Straightening his bowtie, Mycroft stood as emergency services loaded Greg into the waiting ambulance. Abandoning his coat and umbrella, Mycroft ducked into the ambulance and took his place at Greg's side, their hands finding one another automatically. "I should quite like to hear you moan Mycroft," he said politely. Donovan, at the rear of the ambulance, coughed.

Both men ignored her. "I think that can be arranged," Greg promised, giving his hand a squeeze before relinquishing himself to the tender mercies of the EMT. "Later..."


	2. Eggs & Chips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's managed the impossible--he's asked Mycroft Holmes on a date. Now he just has to keep from blowing it.

“You’ve gone and done it now, dummy,” Greg whispered furiously to himself, pretending to be confident as he strode into the ultra-fancy atrium of the swank restaurant where he was to meet Mycroft Holmes.

  
Mycroft, whom he had apparently put the moves on in an entirely unequivocal manner while suffering from a mild concussion. Not that he didn’t want the man. He did. Oh boy, did he ever. His crush was of a colossal and long-lasting sort--the never ending Gobstopper of crushes--but not something he was ever supposed to, yanno, admit to.

But no, Greg “Dummy” Lestrade had to go and snog the man senseless, hold his hand like a blushing school-boy, hold his head like it was a Faberge egg while gazing into his eyes and calling him sweetheart, and suggestively slid his hand onto that luscious, luscious bum and basically invite him to dinner as soon as was humanly possible. Greg knew all this because he’d been there. He’d done it. Him. The dummy.

And also because Donovan was The Absolute Worst and had filmed quite a bit in the ambulance. 

Greg thought about dying of embarrassment. He thought about simply leaving. Mycroft was smart, he’d figure out that Greg was a cowardly custard and had run as far and as fast as his best shoes would let him.

But then he saw that tall, slim, sexy, amazing...where was he? Oh yeah. Then he saw Mycroft turn from where he stood at the top of the short flight of marble stairs, blushing a bit, but smiling too. A real smile. The kind that made Greg’s heart do wonderful, wriggly things in his chest. “Lestrade,” Mycroft greeted, smoothing one hand (a nervous hand?) over the front of his midnight-blue waistcoat. God, Greg really loved Mycroft’s waistcoats. And his suits. He wanted to peel those layers off one at a time, with plenty of kisses, and reveal the treasures buried underneath. He wanted to--

_ Stop thinking about him naked, you numpty! He’ll know! _

“Thought I told you to call me Greg,” he managed to say, sounding mostly normal.

Mycroft definitely blushed then. “So you did.”

They stood for a minute, trading blushes and shy smiles, until the  _ maître d' _ discreetly cleared his throat. With an overabundance of flourishing gestures and flowery speech, he escorted them to the table Mycroft had reserved. Greg had asked him out (still loopy from his concussion, but really, really meaning it) only Mycroft had asked that he be granted the liberty of making the arrangements. Given the security detail he lived with as a reality, Greg figured it only made sense. Not to mention Mycroft probably had a super-refined palate and was terrified Greg would take him for eggs and chips.

“That’s quite a smile,” Mycroft remarked, taking his seat.

Greg sat across from him at the cozy table. They were in a small alcove, mostly surrounded by pillars, swags of material, and potted palms. It was if they were alone. “Just thinking of what you’d think of the chipper.”

“I love a good plate of chips,” Mycroft said seriously, adjusting his cuffs, which needed no adjusting. He smiled, looking a little mischievous, “Especially after a good night of drinking...or a bout of athletic sex.”

Greg quietly swallowed his tongue.

While he was attempting to extract it from his throat, the waiter arrived and Mycroft ordered wine and sparkling water. Greg, recovered, sat mute. Crap, apparently he was only smooth when he was suffering a knock to his thick scull.

“Forgive me,” Mycroft apologized, when they were alone again. He sounded, and looked, sincere. “I’m feeling quite...effervescent, and I’m afraid I allowed my mood to run away with me.” He glanced down at the table, “I rather thought, from your previous behaviour that you--but of course if you’re feeling differently now that you’re recovered--one could hardly blame you if you wanted out of this--”

Greg shook off his stupor. “Don’t apologize.” He impulsively grabbed Mycroft’s hand and was rewarded by a swift look of shy surprise and delight. He felt an unfurling happiness in his chest--so it hadn’t been all muddled thinking due to the blow to the head. Mycroft definitely felt something positive for him too. “I like you effervescent.” He bit his lip, shy, ducking his head, “Like you buttoned up, too.”

Mycroft smoothed a thumb delicately over Greg’s knuckles, “That is good, as I’m frequently buttoned up.”

Greg peeked up at him from under his lashes. “But not always?”

Mycroft smiled, slow and naughty, “I’ve been known to...unbutton.”

Breath coming faster, Greg gave up trying to play it cool. “If I were to, say, ask nicely, would I get to unbutton you later?”  _ Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes! _

Eyes dancing, the other man ran a fingertip over Greg’s palm, eyes bright, “Assuredly, Gregory, most assuredly.” He echoed Greg’s earlier move, sinking his teeth slowly into his lip, though on him it made him look less nervous school-boy and more sex-kitten. Greg one hundred percent approved of this look. “Perhaps we’ll even see the need for...eggs and chips?”

_ Yes! _ With a little internal fist pump of glee, Greg congratulated himself on being the tiniest bit smooth. Dipping his head to press a kiss to Mycroft’s palm, he breathed, “Know just the place, gorgeous. I’ve got you covered.”

“Oh Detective Inspector,” Mycroft purred, “I do hope so.”


End file.
